


You Wanna Know a Secret?

by msred



Series: Starting Over [22]
Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hotels, Implied Sexual Content, Just Married, Morning Cuddles, POV First Person, Romantic Fluff, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/pseuds/msred
Summary: I opened my eyes and looked across the hotel sheets and pillows at Chris’s peaceful, sleeping face, and everything from the previous day rushed over me. My heart started to pound and my face split into a grin, my bottom lip catching between my teeth, and I couldn’t stop my hand from coming up to curl around the side of his neck. My thumb traced his jaw and my fingers threaded into his hair and his eyes fluttered open, a smile on his face to match my own.
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor) & Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor) & Reader, Chris Evans (Actor) & You, Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor)/Reader, Chris Evans (Actor)/You
Series: Starting Over [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1423663
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	You Wanna Know a Secret?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Friendly Skies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190857) by [msred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/pseuds/msred). 



_ 1.5 years together, 1 day married (June, Year 3) _

I opened my eyes and looked across the hotel sheets and pillows at Chris’s peaceful, sleeping face, and everything from the previous day rushed over me. My heart started to pound and my face split into a grin, my bottom lip catching between my teeth, and I couldn’t stop my hand from coming up to curl around the side of his neck. My thumb traced his jaw and my fingers threaded into his hair and his eyes fluttered open, a smile on his face to match my own.

“Good morning,” I practically chirped at him when he pressed his hand flat to my back, drawing me closer.

“Hi,” he drawled sleepily. His fingers drew circles over my spine, his arm draped over my side and his palm flat on my back. He leaned forward to kiss the tip of my nose. “Wanna know a really awesome secret?”

“Of course,” I rolled my eyes a little, playful and flirty, and lifted one shoulder as my nose wrinkled.

“I got married yesterday.” He grinned wider and flexed the muscles in his arm, pressing me against him for a second; I could feel the platinum band wrapped around his third finger, cool against my skin. It was rare that I slept fully naked, it just wasn't something I'd ever become totally comfortable with, so even if it was just a t-shirt - one of his or an old, well-worn one of my own - I was almost always wearing  _ something.  _ But that morning, I woke up with nothing touching my body except high-quality, luxury hotel sheets and my husband's warm, smooth skin. And his brand-new wedding band.

“Oh, is that so?” I wiggled, trying to fit myself completely against him, and I felt him wake up a little more when I hooked my leg over his hip.

“It is.” His voice was husky, thick with sleep and arousal. There was absolutely no sound I’d rather hear first thing in the morning. “D’you want to hear about her?”  
My fingers slid through his hair, tracing circles on the back of his scalp. I slid my other hand from under my pillow and brought it to the center of his chest so my fingertips fit _just so_ in the hollow at the base of his throat. “If you want to tell me about her.”

“She’s gorgeous.” He grinned, “And smart, and funny, kind, generous.” He slid his arm farther around my back to wedge his hand between my ribs and the mattress, digging in just until it almost tickled. “She puts me in my place sometimes, too, though, definitely keeps me on my toes.” He jerked his eyebrows toward his hairline and I nearly giggled. “And she’s the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” His voice went softer on the last sentence and he tilted his head down until both our foreheads and our noses touched and he let his thumb drift over my back.

“Hmm.” I cut my eyes to the side, avoiding eye contact. “If you say so.”

He actually did tickle me then, pinning me down with the weight and the strength of his arm and pressing his fingertips into the soft, sensitive flesh of my side. “Oh, I do, Little Miss Skeptical.” I giggled until I was breathless and he finally relented. I smacked at his chest with the hand that was pinned there and pinched his shoulder with the one that had slid down out of his hair as he launched his assault, but both ‘attacks’ were half-hearted, at best. He only grinned at me, clearly proud of himself. As I relaxed, my breath evening out and my body sinking back into the mattress, he pushed his right arm so that it came out from under his pillow, between it and the headboard, and hooked it up so that he could reach to curl his hand over the top of my head. 

His fingertips drifted over my hair as I finally spoke, my breathing and my heartrate back to normal. “Well, funny you should say that, actually, because you wanna know something?” I rubbed his earlobe between my thumb and forefinger, grinning softly and letting my eyes drift over his face.

“Shoot.”

“I  _ also _ got married yesterday, so I guess that’s Little _ Missus  _ Skeptical, to you, Mister.”

“Well then,” his voice was lower, huskier, “aren’t we a pair.” 

“I guess we are.”

He held me against him with one hand and worked his fingers into my hair with the other, almost tugging, as he tilted his chin forward to press his lips to mine. He wasted no time before nipping at my bottom one, and when I moaned, already starting to go breathless, he slipped his tongue into my mouth, sliding it along mine and tracing it lightly, teasingly, along the roof of my mouth. My head swam and I clung to him, feeling as if my fingers digging into his shoulder were the only things keeping me from just … floating away. It didn’t feel real, somehow, impossible that this dream of a man was holding my mouth captive with his, that he was tightening his arm almost painfully tighter around my waist so he could roll onto his back and take me with him without a breath of space coming between us, that he was, of all things, my  _ husband _ . While one hand clung to my opposite hip, refusing to let me go even as he shifted his hips beneath me - creating friction or relieving the uncomfortable pressure of my weight on the most sensitive parts of him, I couldn’t be sure - the other curled around my neck, thumb tracing a line from the corner of my jaw to just behind my ear as his lips and tongue and teeth claimed my mouth again and again, desperate but loving, urgent but gentle.

I got the feeling he could have gone on like that all day. And as tempting as that thought was, I still had more I wanted to say. To be perfectly honest, I wanted to say  _ everything  _ to him, to tell him everything I thought and felt and wondered, for the rest of my life. And to do that, I had to start somewhere, had to stop kissing him at some point. So I pulled back, slowly, enjoying the way his head rose off the pillow, chasing me as I sat up, and I slid my hips forward as I sat, because if I didn’t, well, no talking would happen with him growing harder between my legs, already spread wide so that one fell to either side of his hips. When I finally sat upright, my butt resting just below his belly button (and just above where I knew he wished I was) and my knees pressing into the mattress, my fingers drifting lightly up and down his ribcage, I asked, “Can I tell  _ you  _ about  _ him _ ?”

He rolled his eyes but his hands came to rest on the outsides of my thighs, taking any potential bite out of the gesture. “If you must.”

“I must.” I let my eyelids fall half-closed and nodded. He just grinned, small and a little snarky and oh so sexy. “He’s the sexiest man on the planet.” I increased the pressure of my fingertips on his skin and brought them up onto his chest then down, slowly, until I bent slightly forward so I could flatten my hands against him just inside his hipbones, just in front of my own inner thighs, and trace his belly button with one thumb. “And he’s so incredibly talented, which is only made better because he works so hard, and always goes out of his way to educate himself, so he’s also incredibly smart. Probably smarter than your wife, in all the ways that matter.” He rolled his eyes then, and shook his head, but I ignored him. “And he has the best heart. He cares about things so much that sometimes it makes  _ my  _ heart hurt.” I picked up his right hand with my left and pulled slowly, letting him push himself up onto his other forearm until I could bring his hand to my chest, over my heart, and hold it there. “He just, he makes everyone and everything around him better.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“You know, I thought that too, at first.” I closed my hand around his and lifted it from my chest, pulling it higher so that I could press my lips to his palm. I placed several light kisses there, even letting my eyelashes flutter butterfly kisses over his fingertips when he stretched his long fingers to trace my cheekbones. Finally I stopped, and he lowered his arm, bringing it down to press into the mattress, sharing the load of his upper body weight with the other one. “Turns out I’m just really lucky.”

“Oh, babe,” he looked up at me, eyes wide and soft and, god, just the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, and his hands slid across the mattress to wrap around my calves where they ran from his ribs to his hips, “luck has  _ nothing  _ to do with it.” 

It took my breath away, sometimes, the way he looked at me. (It still does, actually, all these years later.) He has, undoubtedly, the most beautiful eyes - clear, except when they cloud over in certain light; blue, except when the green flecks jump out depending on what he wears; bright, except when they go dark when he’s stressed, or focused, or aroused. And god, those eyelashes. He’d stopped looking at me like I was crazy, though he still rolled his eyes and scoffed, when I told him they were unfairly beautiful. I wasn’t sure if he really didn’t get it or if he just didn’t take the compliment well, but I didn’t mind telling him time and again how long, and dark, and perfect they were. As beautiful as they were though, both his eyes and his lashes, that wasn’t it. There was just this, this  _ look  _ he got, when we’d been apart for a while and were finally seeing one another again, or when he watched me with his niece, or his mom, or the first time he told me he loved me, or any time over the past couple months that someone had brought up the wedding, or, well, sometimes for reasons I didn’t even know. I just knew I loved it, and that when he looked at me like that - wide-eyed at first, then his eyelids half-lowered, heavy, so that his eyes were a little hooded and softer than usual, one side of his mouth turned up just enough so that he wasn’t exactly smiling, but he just looked happy, content, peaceful - I felt warm and taken care of and loved. He made - makes - me feel so loved. 

I looked around the room, trying to remember where I’d plugged my phone in the night before, and my own eyes lit up when I saw it on the nightstand on my side of the bed, just in front of me and to my left. I braced my right hand on Chris’s chest and leaned forward to reach for the phone with my left. He shifted his hands up to my hips to brace me and, after pulling his eyes away from my breasts, now much closer to his face than they were before, looked up at me in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Just be still a second,” I admonished, not even looking at him. I worked the charger free of the bottom of the phone, not exactly an easy task with just my left hand, and sat back up, pushing myself carefully with the hand on his chest. I opened the phone’s camera app and pointed it at him, snapping a couple quick pictures back to back.

Always the good sport, he only chuckled. “What on earth are you up to up there, silly girl?”

“Do you even realize how you look at me sometimes?” I held the phone to my chest, half-afraid he was going to take it away from me before I had a chance to take more, and traced first the tattoo on the right side of his ribcage then the one above it, on his collarbone on the same side, with just the tips of the fingers on my right hand, no longer needing it to hold myself up. 

I hit a ticklish spot on his ribs on my second pass over the first tattoo and his own hands tightened just above my hips. “What do you mean?” he asked around a giggle as he watched me squirm, the byproduct of his fingers digging into my sides.

I took a second to compose myself, turning the phone back toward him and bringing my right hand up to hold it with both hands, steadying it for a clearer shot. “I mean you look at me,” he was doing it again, “like that,” I snapped another picture, then another, switching to my phone’s portrait mode between the two, “and my heart wants to, I don’t know, to just seize up and be still to hold it all in, but also to beat out of my chest, all at the same time. It’s just impossible to believe sometimes, everything we have, and the way you look at me, the way you love me.”

He reached up for me like he was going to take the phone out of my hand, “Give me that.” I rolled my eyes and handed it out to him, but he only flicked his wrist, waving me away.

“Give …?” I narrowed my eyes at him as he closed his hand around my left wrist, “my hand?”

“Yeah.” He tugged, pulling my hand down onto his chest. He flattened it just over his heart, all but arranging my fingers there, then reached up to lay his own left hand atop mine. He tucked his thumb under my ring finger, lifting it higher than the others, and let his fingers splay across the back of my hand, the stones on my rings and the platinum of his all catching the light streaming through the window to my left. “Now, take another one.” He looked from our hands back up at me, that expression - that peaceful, content, loving one that made me feel like the center of the universe for just a second - right back where it had been before. I got lost for a moment before remembering that I was supposed to be taking another picture. When I managed to focus again, pulling myself out of the haze that look often sent me into, I snapped a few more pictures, a couple with his face as the focus, and a couple with the lens focused on our hands, his smile and soft eyes slightly blurred in the background. “Was that it? The look?” he asked, bringing me back down to earth.

I let my thumb drift slowly over his chest. “It was.”

He pulled his hand from mine, brushing his thumb over my rings as he did, and brought it to my cheek. I leaned into his hand and gently drew the corner of my bottom lip between my teeth, the other side curling up into a soft half-smile. 

“You’ve got one too, you know.” I felt myself blush, and when my eyes fell closed because I couldn’t bear to see the intent way he was looking up at me, he slid his hand into my hair to pull me down to him. I sighed when my lips met his, and I felt him grin under me. The kiss was shorter than the last one, sweet and mostly chaste, and just when it might have started to heat up, his lips moved against mine. “Hand me the phone, it’s my turn.” He was grinning at me when I pulled back, and he reached for my phone, still in the hand tucked between our chests. He aimed the camera at me as I sat back up, and when I was settled he reached up again with his left hand. 

First, he cupped his hand around my jaw, attempting to direct the camera with his right. He must not have been satisfied with what he saw, because he slid his hand down onto my neck, but as his fingers curled around my throat, his eyes grew almost comically wide and he shook his head adamantly. No matter where he put his left hand, he didn’t seem happy with what he was able to capture with the phone in his right. “Okay, that’s not - here, you take it.” He reached across me, making sure I took the phone in my own right hand, and once I had, he brought his left hand back up, that time resting it on the side of my head over my hair. I set the phone to the front-facing camera and reached out to the side, angling it so that the screen reflected my profile, his hand slowly running down my hair, and just the tops of my bare shoulders. Just before snapping the picture, I made a last-second decision to bring my own left hand across my body to rest on his wrist, and when I took my attention off the phone screen and brought it back to his face, calm and sweet and peaceful, I felt a special kind of peace come over me as well. I felt the muscles in my face soften, my bottom lip once again finding its place between my teeth, and as they did I watched Chris’s smile grow. Apparently, my look was back. I snapped several pictures without taking my eyes off him, hoping my hand was steady enough that at least one would come out okay. For Chris’s part, he didn’t seem the least bit concerned, still looking up at me with that sweet smile, eyes bright and soft and sparkling as his hand continued to travel down through my hair while I snapped one picture after another. 

Once his hand reached my shoulder, he slid his fingers out of my hair to let his fingertips ghost down my body - over my collarbone, across the top and then the side of my breast, and when he reached my ribs and detoured to the opposite side of my body to trace over the words inked into my skin, I let my hand fall from his to trace my own fingertips in small circles and nonsense patterns through the thin trail of hair on his stomach. I watched him flinch and felt the muscles twitch when I hit a ticklish spot, and he reacted quickly, bringing his left hand back across my body to wrap around my back and darting his right hand off the bed to grab my wrist, using both hands to pull me down onto him. I squeaked a little as I fell, and he chuckled when I landed on him.

“Now lemme see.” He jerked his chin toward my right hand, resting on the pillow beside his head and still gripping the phone. I resituated myself, settling on top of him so that my left leg fell to run along the outside of his right one and my right nestled between both of his as he bent his opposite knee a little to cock his leg out to the side. I covered his body with mine as much as my smaller frame would allow and settled my head on his shoulder. I waited just another second for him to get his arms wrapped around me just the way he liked, then finally lifted the phone so we could both see it, pulling up the last of the pictures I had taken and flipping through the series. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.” He almost didn’t even seem to be talking to me, his voice sounded so dreamy and faraway. But then he turned to press his lips to my forehead and when he spoke again his voice was louder, more confident, with a touch of mischief, even. “You gotta be careful with those though, you know, I’m a married man now.” His fingers pressed into my ribs at my back.

I grinned up at him and dropped the phone onto the pillow. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep them between us.”

The hint of mischief had moved into his eyes, and before I had a chance to brace myself, his fingers were flying over my skin, tickling my ribs and my sides. I squealed and tried to wiggle away from his dancing hands, but as soon as I thought I was free, he just gripped my hips and flipped us so that I was on my back and the weight of his body pressed me into the mattress. He scooted down until he could look up at me from where his chin rested on my chest, and I wrapped my legs loosely around his ribcage, one of my hands falling to his shoulder and the other sliding into his hair to scratch lightly over his scalp. 

“Actually,” he brought his hands down to rest on the sides of my ribs, holding me rather than tickling, “you know, we could,” both thumbs traced the outline of the bottom of my ribcage as he paused, “post them.” I pulled in a long, deep breath; that was unexpected. When my chest swelled with oxygen, Chris tilted his head down to kiss right in the center of my breastplate. He went on, settling his chin back on my chest lightly enough that it didn’t feel like it was digging in as he talked. “Not right now, I mean, but once it’s, ya know, more public knowledge.” He brought a hand up to run over my hair, smoothing it back from my forehead then resting his hand over my crown like he had right after I woke him. “After the  _ Esquire  _ story runs, or maybe a little before that, if we get discovered before then, or if we just want to get ahead of the news cycle.” His shoulders pulled up toward his ears in an almost too casual shrug, as if he’d just suggested grabbing coffee on the way to the airport or something equally mundane.

I loved the way his body felt on top of mine, his weight grounding me, his hands touching me so gently, so lovingly, but honestly, my brain was too stuck on his comment that we might want to post the pictures to focus on his touch the way I normally would. It was so out of the blue, so unlike him. 

We’d worked so hard for the past year and a half to be as under-the-radar as possible, and I was actually amazed at how well we’d done. Sure, there had been some pictures pop up - the premiere, Disney for our birthdays, ice skating in New York at Christmas - some speculation here and there, but it always died down before it had a chance to gain any traction; no one really had any clue who I was, and there didn’t even seem to be a consensus as to whether I was the same person every time. And while I, of course, hadn’t loved the prospect of being thrust into a public spotlight - I hadn’t handled the premiere well, and I had really only been spotlight-adjacent, still taking on the role of widow and movie consultant more so than Chris’s partner - it was Chris who was adamant that he didn’t want me to have to deal with that, concerned about what it could mean for  _ us _ if people online and in the media were less kind than the people in our real lives. It was implied to me, once, by one of the  _ less  _ kind people in my real life, that maybe what he wanted was to have something with me with no responsibilities, no repercussions, and that by keeping things so quiet he was ensuring that’s what he had. I never believed that, even for a second. He was protecting me, protecting what we had (from comments not unlike that one, ironically). He knew the way I could twist and turn things inside my own head, convincing myself that all my own insecurities were reality, and I know he wanted to stave that off for as long as possible. I knew that had been an issue for him, before, and with someone who was far more used to the media than I was. I had to appreciate, and respect, that he didn’t want me to get hurt, and even more than that, that what we had meant enough to him that he was willing to work so hard to keep it.

There would be backlash, we knew, when the rest of the world learned about what we had. And when it happened - and we were married, there would be no avoiding it for much longer - we’d deal with it. Together. But up to that point, I truly believe Chris’s biggest fear had been that the backlash would come and he would be in Boston, or L.A., or even on location somewhere, and I would spin out, left to my own devices without him physically there to remind me that we were a team, that it was him and me, together, against the world (and to make sure I couldn’t just shut down and shut him out like I would admittedly probably do if it was as simple as not answering his calls, convinced it was what was better, easier, for him). But we were married, and well, being married changed the game a bit; it meant we would actually be physically together more often than not and that he would be there to hold me through it when internet scrutiny compounded my own anxieties and insecurities. It also meant, as arbitrary as it may seem, considering nothing had  _ really  _ changed except my name (certainly nothing about the way we felt about one another), that what we had felt more solid, somehow, more stable, more able to withstand anything that might come our way. It was almost as if we had become untouchable the moment we’d each said  _ I do _ . And yet, even with all those things being true - the knowledge that our relationship would become public sooner rather than later, the acceptance that we’d ensured it, even, with the  _ Esquire  _ interview, and the belief, the  _ faith _ , that we’d be totally okay anyway - the last thing I expected was for him to suggest posting the pictures we’d just taken. 

“Post them?” I combed my fingers through his hair, pushing it back and trailing around his ear and down the side of his neck.

He turned to kiss the inside of my wrist then settled his cheek on my chest, not looking up at me. “Yeah, why not? They can be our official announcement. You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s not that at all.” I assured him as I went back to running my fingers through his hair. I actually kind of loved the idea. Even if we waited until the  _ Esquire  _ story ran, it felt like we were taking ownership of our own lives more than we had up to that point. I didn’t need to shout from the rooftops,  _ I’m with Chris Evans!  _ but I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to share vacation pictures, cozy date-night-in pictures, pictures of him with Millie, or me with Dodger, wedding pictures, like anyone else would want to do. Up to that point, only the very closest people in each of our lives knew anything about us because it just felt too risky to let in that next layer of friends and acquaintances. There were others, people who weren’t my very best friends but who I did have bonds with, who I did look forward to sharing my happiness with, who I would love to let in, and posting our pictures would be a great way to do that. “It just doesn’t seem like your style.” I looked down at him, watching the top of his head, rising and falling with my chest as I breathed. 

“Well, up until now I just didn’t want to drag you into the whole shitstorm of attention that can come along with being attached to me.” He finally turned to look up at me again, his chin reclaiming its place on my chest. “But it’s not like we’re going to keep our marriage a secret forever. I mean, we’ll stay quiet for a little while, because it’s nice not to have to deal with all that, but even if I hadn’t outed you,  _ us _ , to that reporter, this isn’t something I would want to stay quiet about for too long.” His hands moved from my sides, pressing into the mattress as he pushed himself up to rest his forehead against mine. “I’m wicked proud to be with you, and I plan on making that clear.”

He leaned in for a kiss, and I met his lips with my own, but when I felt his lips begin to part I pulled back, bringing my hands to the sides of his face and holding him steady so I could look into his eyes. “When was the last time I told you how much I love you?”  
“Mmm,” he hummed, seemingly deep in thought, and moved to press his lips under my jaw, “I think last night, when I was -,” the words trailed off and one hand slipped under my thigh to hook it up onto his hip before curling farther around until his fingertips skimmed my inner thigh as his hand moved slowly and steadily toward where I was starting, once again, to grow wet. 

I rolled my eyes and pushed at his shoulders, resulting in his hand moving maybe half an inch back up my leg. That was okay, I didn’t  _ actually  _ want him to stop. I mean, the alarm hadn’t even gone off yet, and we’d built in some  _ recreational  _ time before we had to leave for the airport. I just wanted to say what I had to say before he distracted me. “Okay, yeah yeah.” I softened my face and leaned up to press my forehead to his. “Seriously though, I do.”

He pulled back and grinned down at me, snarky and self-satisfied and cocky as all hell. “You said  _ that _ last night, too.”

I bit my lip but there was no way I could stop my smile at that. I knew exactly how happy I was to be his wife, and when he said things like that, things that pointed to him being just as happy as I was, I truly couldn’t contain my joy. “I mean though, posting intimate pictures and making grand announcements about your personal life just isn’t something I thought you’d want to do.”

He pulled his hand from my leg then, and I concentrated on keeping my face steady so he wouldn’t see my disappointment; I’d never live it down otherwise. His hand curled around the side of my neck, his thumb tracing the underside of my jaw. “I pick and choose what I want to share. And like I said, when the time is right, I want to share this.” He grinned then, and I knew something lighter and probably far less serious was coming. “Besides, I’ve posted plenty of bedroom selfies with Dodger, and I love you almost as much as I love him.” My mouth flew open and my eyes narrowed and I put as much power as I could into the shove I aimed at his right shoulder, rolling him off me. “Oof,” he groaned, landing on his back next to me with a thud, “okay, okay, I love you exactly as much as I love him.” He faced the ceiling, but he cut his eyes to the side to watch my reaction, biting both lips between his teeth to hide his smirk.

I pushed myself up a little so my shoulder blades rested against the headboard and I could look down at him, eyebrows lifted and arms crossed over my chest. “Is it too late for an annulment?”

He barked out a laugh, just one short chuckle, and pushed himself up onto his right side, kissing the side of my arm when he did. “Yeah, I think so, by about,” he drew out the word and reached across my waist with his free hand. He traced a line from my opposite hipbone to my belly button, circling it slowly “… four? Orgasms.” He wiggled his eyebrows and let his hand wander. I gasped when the pads of his fingers brushed over me, not because I wasn’t expecting it, but just because it always felt so, so good. “Wanna make it five?”

“Hmmm,” I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling and lifted one hand to my chin, tapping my lips with my index finger. He scooted farther down the bed while he waited, and, when he decided I was taking too long, leaned over to nip at my hip with his teeth. I laughed and let my eyes fall back to his grinning face, one hand finding its way to the top of his head (it would end up there anyway, if I was right about what he was getting ready to do) and the other falling to run anxiously over the sheet under us. “Gimme six and I’ll consider forgiving you.”  
He lifted one eyebrow and cocked his head a little to one side, holding my gaze as he rolled over my left leg to settle on his stomach, his fingers still petting over my extremely sensitive, increasingly wet skin. “What’ll seven get me?” He grinned up at me from between my legs.

“Late -” he increased the pressure of his middle finger and my breath hitched. I started over. “Late for our flight to Italy.” Sure, we’d allowed ourselves some time, but I wasn’t sure it was  _ that  _ much time.

“Oooh,” I felt his breath on me, “now that sounds like a challenge, one I intend to,” he turned and bit the inside of my thigh, making me jump, as he pulled both legs onto his shoulders, “ _ rise to _ .”

I groaned and my head fell back, thudding against the headboard. "You didn't."

"Oh,” he jutted his chin forward once and jerked his eyebrows up toward his hairline, “I did, and I will."

I didn’t get to respond to that, because before I could, his mouth was on me and my fingers were tightening in his hair and the sheet and my brain couldn’t form any thoughts other than  _ yes _ and _ please  _ and  _ oh God there _ and _ love you so much  _ and  _ my husband _ .

…

We didn't miss our flight, thanks to TSA Pre-Check and an agent who, after rolling up his sleeve to show us the red, silver, and blue shield spanning his forearm, called our gate to let the agent there know there were two more passengers on the way. We were, however, the last people on the plane, which is the exact opposite of how it is  _ supposed  _ to work for first class. I didn’t care about that, though. All I cared about as I settled into the plush seat - more comfortable than I would have ever imagined any airplane seat could be - was that when I rested my head back against the headrest and let it roll to the left, the bright blue eyes that met mine were those of my husband.

***

It would be three weeks before anyone besides the two of us would see those pictures, when I would post the one of my hand on Chris’s chest, his hand resting atop mine and the morning light catching our rings  _ just right _ ,  him looking up at me with  _ that look _ , on my own Twitter and Instagram accounts, along with one Erin had taken as he’d proposed, one Scott had taken as he’d met me halfway up the aisle at our wedding, unable or unwilling to wait for me to make it all the way to him, and a selfie we’d taken in the backyard with the dogs just half an hour after Millie and I had first arrived  _ home  _ in Massachusetts for the first time, all with the caption  _ I will. I do. We did. We’re home.  _ For his part, Chris posted just one, his fingers sliding through a small section of my hair where it hung over my bare shoulder and my own wrapped around his wrist, my head tilted toward our connected hands and my eyes half closed as I looked down at him, a soft smile on my face, with the caption  _ Forever _ . And when we dared to pick our phones back up the next morning, we had both been inundated with direct messages, mentions, retweets - most with comment, and most of those positive, thankfully - texts, and voicemails. The first thing I opened was a voicemail from Scott that said simply, “Congratulations. You’ve broken the internet.” I replayed it on speakerphone so Chris could hear and so we could laugh about it together over our coffee as we sat on the back deck watching the dogs play in the backyard under the morning sun, then we both decided we’d go back to ignoring our phones for a while. The rest could wait.


End file.
